Stilettos – the new WMD?

I think I’ve cracked it! After viewing the enjoyable #Cybergeddon over the internet at  the weekend and catching up with ‘Nikita’ on the planner I have realised that the world could become a safer place if women assassins /FBI agents/undercover something’s go out and do their thing wearing a pair of stilettos. I started to ponder this and seem to remember an impressive towering heeled Cat Women in The Dark Knight Rises, and even good old Lois Lane in Superman who became a superhero called Stiletto...

,

I marvelled at how these women pushed, punched and generally kicked butt in footwear that can only be described as terrifying. Personally I would have problems walking to the bus stop in some of the shoe attire which adorned those perfect size 5 feet, let alone saving a nation from nuclear meltdown or from the clutches of a madmen seeking world domination.

However saying that I did have a quick glance at my rows of shoes and boots, sitting waiting for the day they will be taken out of my closet, and I felt quite proud of the fact that if necessary I could probably play my part in keeping the world safe.

Clearly the kitten heels would be of little use, but I do have a pair of lethal looking shoes with studs on, which I am sure could rise to the challenge, as I’m around 6’1” with them on!  Only women who have a serious shoe habit will understand that you don’t actually have to walk in them. As long as your toes can wiggle in and your heels can rock from side to side until firmly rooted the walking unaided part is optional. It is Mission Accomplished as you admire your new shoes. Ok so there will be pain, we know this, but it is often a small price to pay for the sheer excitement of wearing killer heels. Of course in these cases there would be no room for martial arts or anything remotely superheroesque , nerves of steel and total focus would be required just to remain upright!

I am a 50 something  who has never quite grown out of the thrill of a good old girly shoe shop. 

The sad fact is that my feet seem to have expanded over the years and I now have bunions and an in growing toenail, (too much information?), but that still does not detract from my habit. It just ensures that these days I look and covet more than I actually buy.  Imelda Marcos I’m not. Apparently when she fled the Philippines a staggering 1,220 pair of shoes lay abandoned in a closet. Now that is one seriously large space for shoes!

Saying that though it would be marvellous to have a walk in swanky shoe closet with all the shoes and boots in boxes and a photo of the contents on the outside of the box. I did make a start at doing exactly that with my scant collection, but then my youngest son Ash went to Afghanistan...

You see when our troops are Out There we are allowed to send shoe box size parcels free of charge to them. During Ash’s tour on OperationHerrick 14 I sent 49 boxes. Each box was as a kiss from home. I imagined that as he opened each box he would be surrounded by us, his family and feel the love and hugs we had packed into them.

It became a mission to find things to pop into the box, surprises sitting alongside the toiletries and food. I sent him frisbies and juggling balls, photos and magazines, even hanging shelves from IKEA! When I had exhausted the supply of shoe boxes from my closet I started to beg for empty boxes from the local Clarkes, but looking back I now realise that I actually missed a trick. I had a bona fide excuse to go out and buy 49 pairs of new shoes and boots.

I mean it would be helping the country, our troops and the war effort and we all have to do our little bit now, don’t we?

www.operationshoebox.co.uk

Cathy x

For the Love of Dog...

I love my two dogs and they love me. I get the same excited waggy tailed welcome every single morning as I get up and let them out of the study, which is where they sleep. It’s a repeat performance when I get in from work, or when I have just popped down to the shops. The mention of ‘walkies’ sends them into an impressive dash around the kitchen, bouncing and barking. Special words such as ‘treats’ and ‘cheese’ (yes, yes I know I shouldn’t...), makes them sit instantaneously and sends the tail wagging into hyper drive. They are just content ‘to be’. I marvel at them. Archer and Poppy are supposed to be Miniature Schnauzers, but there is nothing miniature about Archer, and Poppy is, I think, a cross between a Westie and a Schnauzer, so we call her a Wowzer. She was born on 11th November, Remembrance, (Poppy) Day, hence her name.

My dogs are a source of consistency and happiness in my life, regardless of what else is going on. So when my youngest son went out to Afghanistan with 7th Armoured Brigade last year, (known as the Desert Rats), I relied heavily on my dogs to keep everything the same in my world; and probably more importantly to help keep me sane. As the rest of my world started to fray at the seams my two dogs were there, sitting by me, giving their support to me in an uncomplicated way.

When Ash called me from Afghanistan I used to tell him about the walks I went on with our dogs, trying to take him away from the sun and the dust and the bullets. Away from everything that symbolised the hellhole he was in. I talked about my walks in the woods and the way the dogs splashed in the small stream. I described the flowers which were in bud, the colour of the leaves on the trees and the smell of the cow parsley. I wanted to paint a picture, a memory he could store in his mind’s eye, for when he needed it. A breath from home. It could serve as a reminder of all that is peaceful and calm and lovely, a scene of happy dogs splashing in cool waters, without a care in the world.

And when one day Ash told me that the Danish soldiers he was serving with had rescued a puppy dog from certain death and had brought her back to the camp, I was happy. I laughed as he said that they had named her Rommel, commonly known as The Desert Fox back in the Second World War. This tiny puppy had lifted their spirits, even though she had chewed their shoes, and had stolen their rations and hadn’t quite got to grips with toilet training!

Every time he called he had a story about what she had been up to.  He recounted how one day the Danes had taken her out on patrol with them, and she had got left behind as they crossed a river, and how some Afghani children had found her and had brought her back to the soldiers at their Control Point. She was a constant source of entertainment and amusement during what was a very bleak time Out There, and for that I will always be grateful.

And Rommel is not the only dog in Afghanistan I should be grateful to. I read this week about a black Labrador called Treo and her handler Sergeant Dave Heyhoe. This dog had been trained to sniff out IEDs, bombs and weapons that had been hidden by the Taliban in Afghanistan. He was part of the 104 Military Working Dog Support Unit, Royal Army Veterinary Corps.

It transpires that this dog was awarded the canine equivalent of the Victoria Cross for his efforts and was responsible for saving the lives of many British soldiers during his many tours. Now retired he is enjoying a well earned rest with Sergeant Heyhoe, who has written a book called “It’s All About Treo: Life and War with the World’s Bravest Dog.”

Treo, Rommel, Archer and Poppy...what a team!  

Thank you!

Cathy x

Light a candle ...

It’s just a day, 7th October. But for me this date has taken on a significance all of its’ own. It is the 11th Anniversary of the start of the war in Afghanistan. Eleven years since NATO airstrikes first hit Kabul, and oddly it is exactly one year ago today that my youngest son came back from his tour in Afghanistan. It is a day when I can celebrate his 2011 safe return and yet mourn the date in 2001 when we saw the beginning of something dreadful. It is an odd and very peculiar feeling, happy and sad all at once, the good and the bad, the light and dark.

My baby boy came back safe in mind and body and for that I will be eternally grateful. I read back the pages of my diaries that I kept whilst he was in Afghanistan. I barely recognise the woman I was then. I was, of course a Mum of a Son who was fighting in a foreign land 3,554 miles away, for a cause that I didn’t really understand. It was a strange and scary time for me. I was doing a tour by default. It made me question everything. I re read my words and I realise that the questions I posed then are still relevant now and still, an entire year later, unresolved and unanswered.

Last year I was shocked at the cost of the war. At that point it was estimated at £258 billion but I recently read an article that put it at 1 trillion dollars, a figure that I am unable to get my head around, (and honestly I have no ideas how many zeros that is!). But it isn’t about the money, it’s about the loss of life and limbs and minds. It’s about the human cost. It’s about sons and daughters not coming home, about children being denied a parent. It’s about the heartache and the devastation and that doesn’t ever have a price tag.

I was angry last year, angry at the last government for sending them Out There and even more cross at the new government for keeping them there. But I am not a political animal. I am just a very proud mum of a serving soldier in the British Army and from where I sit it is all about the troops and their families. I care about them and care nothing for the politicians and their meaningless words. We are still Out There, we will continue to suffer losses and injuries. I want to be able to do something, even if it’s a little something to help, to show my support.

So when I went to Trafalgar Square in London today to attend the Stop the War Coalition ‘Naming the Dead’ rally it was the photos of the fallen that I saw and their names that I heard, not the political speak. British soldiers who had made the ultimate sacrifice, and the names of some of the thousands of Afghani civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, being read out aloud together.  As I stood there and listened I heard some familiar names, names of those who were killed whilst Ash was on tour. They were the sons and daughter of families I had spoken to. Real people, real families; not just numbers and statistics.

Somebody’s special somebody. People to whom I can relate, because when we said our goodbyes as they went off to start their tour, we never knew if we would see them again, we never knew what a knock at the door would mean, we were helpless and all we had was hope and love...

I was momentarily distracted from the ceremony as my gaze wandered across Trafalgar Square where I saw an entire family of pearly kings and queens resplendent in their costumes. They were coming out of a church, and I smiled as I watched them, just a small smile as I remembered that the Pearly motto was “One never knows.”

And the irony did not escape me as I remembered that cold afternoon in March last year when I kissed my soldier son goodbye and realised that it was probably just as well that I didn’t know what the future held...

If at first you don’t succeed...

Staying power and focus are admirable qualities. Unfortunately in my working life and housework I don’t see myself as having either trait in vast quantities, but when it comes to my children I produce a will of iron from somewhere deep inside me and refuse to take no for an answer. I have been likened to a dog with a bone, or even less (?) flatteringly an Exocet, (for those who don’t know this was an anti aircraft missile used extensively in the Falklands war. It could be launched from almost anywhere and lock onto its target regardless of anything in its way).

I suppose I would have felt better if I was likened to a lioness protecting her cubs. This, in my mind is far more noble and positive...and then I think of the documentary footage of a lioness bringing down a tiny deer or a strayed baby wildebeest and the whole thing becomes slightly confused and a tad awkward, but I digress...

 I have been a single mum since the children were very small. I have tried, with varying degrees of success, to put them on the right path; a path that would see them safe and happy. So when Ash told me aged 15 that he wanted to join the Army it was the determination in his eyes and his resolute and unshakeable faith that this was his path in life which made me feel that I had a responsibility to make it happen.

It wasn’t easy, I was wary about my baby boy joining up. He seemed too young and yet there was a knowingness about him, he was so sure, and through that I became sure. There were interviews and paperwork, tests and more tests, mostly involving me taking Ash to the Army Recruitment Centre in Blackheath and waiting. There was a lot of waiting. 

The path through the recruitment stage was long and arduous and I learned that only 1 out of every 10 young men who walk through the Army Recruitment Centres doors actually make it to basic training.

The morning the letter arrived Ash was at school, so I opened the letter and read that he had been turned down on medical reasons. I stared at the letter and reread its contents. It was because he had had asthma. Thoughts raced through my head and I instantly remember the bad attacks Ash had when he was small, being hospitalised once when I will never forget his tear stained faced begging me not to leave him...but that was years ago and he hadn’t had an asthma attack since he was about 6 and had been off the inhalers now for years. I scratched my head and read the letter again....my eyes darted over the page until I saw the words “Appeal against the decision”, so there was hope.

I found myself checking the clock at regular intervals during the day, waiting to hear the key in the lock and Ash to come home from school. He sat down as I told him the news. His eyes got wider and wider and then started to glisten,

“But Mum” he said “What do I do? What do I do now? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And I looked at him, this young man with eyes the colour of conkers, and I knew that I had to make this happen. I had no choice because I was his Mum and that my job, regardless of how I felt, because it was about him, and not about me.

So I wrote the letter, and fought the decision. After a few weeks the decision was over turned and Ash was cleared to go to basic training and to join up. He was going into Army.

It was on August 28th 2007 in the Army Recruitment Centre in Blackheath, in front of Major M Norris, (a man you had joined as a 16 year old raw recruit), that Ash swore his allegiance to the Queen, I cried, he was not just mine anymore. He was 16 years old and agreeing to serve, to defend, and potentially lay down his life in order to protect others.

“ I Ashley Thomas Wiles swear by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Her heirs and successors and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, Her heirs and successors in Person, Crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, Her heirs and successors and of the Generals and Officers set over me."

 I was humbled and immensely proud of this young warrior, my son. And through the tears I laughed. A silent inward laugh as he pronounced the words Heirs as Hairs, and it made me want to hug him as I realised just how young, how vulnerable and how very unworldly he actually was.

It was a few years later that I was to remember that it was my decision to send the appeal letter and to fight for his right to join up. It was my actions that would eventually result in my son, my baby boy, going to Afghanistan and to war...